It’s a tradition all over,
They did it—now I’m meant to fold,
To drink the same bitter brew they swallowed,
As if pain were heirloom gold.
It tasted like bitter leaf,
When they could have picked spinach instead.
Why choose the thorned path of grief,
When sweetness blooms just ahead?
They called it fate,
They called it duty,
But I call it what it truly is—
The burial of beauty.
I won’t conform to the old design,
Not every story ends in tears.
Nothing is impossible to redefine,
Not when courage outshines fears.
Their ideas creep like poison ivy,
Climbing fast, choking breath.
But I, I step aside—
I won’t go blind into that depth.
I deserve a candy cane,
Not another link in a chain.
I deserve love that doesn’t drain,
Not masked as honour, not soaked in pain.
So if they say I must kneel
In unions void of care and grace,
I will rise, steel in my heel,
With fire in my place.
Even if I must fight the skies,
The earth, the storm, the sea—
Let it be known—I won’t accept
What steals the soul of me.
I will not take any lees.
Only wholeness.
Only peace.